


In Absentia

by Tandirra



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Gen, M/M, Self-Discovery, heteronormativity don't interact
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-12
Updated: 2019-09-26
Packaged: 2020-10-17 06:47:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 17,098
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20616737
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tandirra/pseuds/Tandirra
Summary: While Anathema's life changed very abruptly on the Day the World Didn’t End, when she thought about it on long lonely nights she knew her role didn’t. There was always another voice to guide her. To make decisions and decide what was right for her so she didn’t have to. She tried to do what Agnes would have wanted. But she just couldn't. Not anymore. So, she reached out for a willing ear elsewhere. And found it in Aziraphale and Crowley, who quickly became her confidants.Then she shows up to Aziraphale's bookstore one day and they aren't there. It's up to her, not Agnes, not Newt, to find them.





	1. Chapter 1

_ Anathema, mine descendant, an hour will cometh when ye must turne towards a union moste unusual for thy salvation. But prepare, for thy favour must be repaid even unto the deepest pits of Hellfire and choruses of Heaven. _

Anathema Device (and it was still very solidly Device) was a woman who liked to believe she knew the way her life was supposed to work. Of course, for most of said life that had been thanks to Agnes Nutter. The witch with all the answers who decided to share them in the form of vague riddles that didn’t so much guide as wave a hand in what may or may not be the right direction. 

Despite, and in some part because of this, Anathema took pride in her ability to decipher these codes and followed her given destiny without undue complaint.

Her destiny. Her reason for being on this Earth. She’d hurtled towards it since the moment she’d been born, just a piece of Agnes’s predestined scheme.

From a young age her mother had made it obvious that, thinking practically, little else mattered. She couldn’t afford to act beyond Agnes’s master plan and anything that could help her along that journey. Besides, if Anathema didn’t do her job right there wouldn’t _ be _anything beyond what Agnes had written in her book.

So Anathema failed to make a plan for this hypothetical after and tried not to worry about it. Her future didn’t matter in the face of the End of the World.

But the last day came and went and there was an after. 

It was very lucky then that, just as Agnes and her prophecies came to their conclusion, along came Newt. Agnes’s last gift. Anathema was set on appreciating him. After all, according to the book they were supposed to live happily ever after.

Or so she presumed.

While her life changed very abruptly on the Day the World Didn’t End, when she thought about it on long lonely nights she knew her role didn’t. Even after they burned the_ Further Prophecies. _ (Newt’s idea and the first of many she followed hesitantly.) There was always another voice to guide her. To make decisions and decide what was right for her so she didn’t have to.

She tried to love Newt. That was what she was meant to do, after all. It shouldn’t have been hard. He was kind. He meant well. He loved her. 

But, in the end, all she felt for him was a sense of obligation. She was obligated to love him. To stand by him and hold him close. All because of Agnes and a few words on a three hundred year old page. It never felt right. They weren’t similar enough. Or different enough. Or compatible enough. What they had, she didn’t quite know what to call it, just drained her.

In the end she felt the only thing they had tying them together was Agnes.

She spent far too many hours of far too many nights alone. Having crawled out of their cold shared bed to sit in the garden under the stars. Here she was closer, spatially, to Agnes than ever before. In the same country her long lost ancestor had lived and exploded. But, night after night, she felt like Agnes was slipping away. Like somewhere she’d failed to interpret Agnes right and that Agnes was punishing her for it.

She couldn’t keep pretending. Keep convincing herself that this was the right way of things. Even though she’d been so sure this is what Agnes intended. She had to admit her failure.

So they’d called it a break. Just a break. But Anathema wasn’t ignorant. She knew full well that so called breaks trended towards permanency more often than not.

Which left her alone. Really and truly alone for the first time in her life. Without her mother. Without Newt. Without Agnes.

But she couldn’t just wallow in her own loneliness and uncertainty. That wasn’t productive and it certainly wasn’t what she was raised to do. So she buried the thoughts and tried to live all on her own. To focus her energy and wit on more productive things. 

Like protesting climate change and hunger and the rampant corruption that exacerbated every single one of those issues. These causes gave her some purpose. And some like-minded company. She’d managed this balancing of action and anxiety well enough for a few increasingly sleepless weeks. 

But Agnes lingered. The plan, the very thing that had been drilled into her since childhood, never left the back of her mind and it percolated from there into every thought, stirring up unease and unrest.

She just couldn’t understand where’d she’d gone wrong.

Talking to her mom about it got her nowhere. As much as her mom loved her and believed in her she just couldn’t understand. She wasn’t the one led to save the world by Agnes. And then did. And then was abandoned. She had her own life. Her part in the plan that defined their family had gone right, after all.

Besides, she kept insisting to get back with Newt, since it’s what Agnes intended. _ And Agnes is never wrong. _

The line had long since grown old, so she stopped trying to explain herself. 

She thought about trying out a therapist, but half of the things she needed to talk about most she couldn’t. Not with most people. And, nice as the Them were, they were just kids. After what happened with Adam she tried to curate what ideas and opinions she gave out. And while Madam Tracy was very sweet, Shadwell, for all the times Newt had tried to convince her otherwise, made her skin crawl. And she definitely wasn’t going to go to Newt, who she’d barely exchanged more than a few words with since their break began.

Of course, that left the odd couple.

She’d been hesitant to reach out at first. After all, they weren’t even human. And while their stand against the forces of Heaven and Hell had pretty firmly placed them on humanity’s side, their sheer existence was, to put it lightly, mildly off putting. 

And it wasn’t like she’d forgotten how the demon had hit her with his car and stole Agnes’s prophecies.

Still, she had nothing left to lose. Things couldn’t possibly get worse.

It was the angel she’d decided would be the one less likely to turn her to stone if she caught him on a bad day. And enough people talked online about the many and various odd happenings in his bookstore that it wasn’t all that hard to find out where he lived. 

Unfortunately, she hadn’t exactly made the best entrance for herself. 

It had been a hard day (more like three, since had been nearly that long since she’d gotten any more than a few hours of sleep) that had pushed her to his doorstep, wholly unannounced and in the middle of a breakdown that had begun over her ordering the wrong kind of Chinese takeout and in her blubbering at his doorstep about the wave of wrongness that had rolled over her. Everything she’d ever done wrong, magnified. 

It hadn’t been the second impression she’d been searching for.

Much to her relief the angel hadn’t kicked her to the curb. Instead he had, at first rather uncertainly, led her inside and guided her gently to a worn couch with quiet, nervous reassurances about her well being and that nobody was _ all _wrong, that it just wasn’t possible and she shouldn’t say such things.

Then he’d evaporated into the store, emerging minutes later with the demon Crowley on his heels. Who, after a critical eye and a remark in the angel’s ear, pulled his own vanishing act. His return was accompanied by a warm mug that passed hands to her, which she quickly discovered was only half the coffee it appeared to be.

It had been enough to pull her back into coherency.

After she’d composed herself, the pair had been surprisingly sympathetic to her plight. That first night they’d just listened, with wildly differing levels of curiosity.

It had been the first step. One meeting led to another. And then another. And they just never stopped.

She usually came to the bookshop during bad weeks. Hard weeks. Sometimes all she needed was the company and a place by a rainy window with a good book. Aziraphale always had a good recommendations and his gushing over them was a reward all in itself. So sometimes she just read and it was enough to take her mind off what it didn’t understand.

But often she needed more than that. She needed to speak before the thoughts bouncing around her head consumed her. On days like that she’d sit down with Aziraphale and she would speak. And he would listen. Oftentimes Crowley lurked nearby, though rarely participated, since he was usually sprawled out across Aziraphale’s lap in some advanced stage of a nap.

When she had spent herself, wrung every persistent, nagging thought from her head, it became Aziraphale’s turn. He usually asked questions. “Well, what would _ you _ do?” He never took any answer that had Agnes, or Newt, or her mother within it. A popular one was the frightening: “What makes _ you _happy?” 

Other times he would talk about Heaven, about expectations and breaking rules you’ve known all your life. About moving on after you do. He talked a lot about moving on, though sometimes he let slip his own anxiety, as he began to stutter and wring his hands together as if asking for some bizarre forgiveness.

It was at times like that that made Anathema believe Crowley must be listening, since, whenever Aziraphale began to stumble, one of Crowley’s hands always found its way into Aziraphale’s and laced their fingers tight until the angel found the strength to compose himself.

After they’d exhausted themselves talking they’d usually go out for a “night cap” as Aziraphale called it. (Crowley just called it what it was. A chance to get well and truly sloshed.) They’d stumble back to the bookshop and Aziraphale would insist she crash on a couch and she’d weakly resist before inevitably caving in. And he’d bring her a pillow and a blanket and tell her to have good dreams. Which she did.

Befriending an angel had its perks.

Their meetings progressed to a weekly event. Sometimes it was just to catch up, since she simply wasn’t ready to leap the hurdle of calling up an angel or a demon on the phone to talk to them about the weather or their week yet. She’d thought, very briefly, about setting up a Facebook for Aziraphale to help promote his business and keep in touch. But after realizing the damage Crowley could wreak and that Aziraphale didn’t exactly want for business, she’d given up on the idea. 

It was that visit that convinced her to brave the London Underground on this rainy Friday afternoon.

Anathema had brought a present with her, a Napa Valley chardonnay that her mom had recommended, since the last time she’d talked about Californian wine Aziraphale had all but turned his nose up and she was convinced to get him to try the stuff. For now she clutched the bottle close, fearful the damp paper bag might give way. By the time she made it to Soho the rain had turned into a fine mist that fogged her glasses and made it feel like she was walking through a particularly sticky pond.

She ducked into the covered patio of the coffee shop opposite Aziraphale’s bookstore to wipe the water from her glasses and attempt to wring her hair at the window. Gracious as the angel was he wouldn’t stand for her to waltz into his bookstore sopping wet and she knew it.

It was in the reflection of the window that she noticed Crowley’s big black car parked on the curb beside Aziraphale’s bookstore. And the tow truck readying it to be towed away. 

That she’d even taken notice of Crowley’s Bentley was already out of the ordinary. She often forgot about it entirely, despite the fact that she always saw it there, parked illegally on the curb outside of Aziraphale’s shop. Despite that, whenever she pictured the bookshop it slipped from her mind like water off a duck’s back.

The culprit was the innate magic of both Aziraphale and Crowley. Magic was, for people like herself, occultists and witches, something to be harness in subtle ways. It was more about observing and understanding the world differently than the movies made it seem. Sure, there was the odd summoning, but the skill never got much practical use.

Not so much for Crowley and Aziraphale, who’s very existence demanded the world shift itself to fit their mold. Anathema would have been lying if she’d said she wasn’t jealous.

One day, back when she was still with Newt, they’d spent an afternoon deciding what they’d do if they were bestowed with divine or hellish powers the way the odd couple was. She’d help replant the rain-forests. He’d finally go to college for computer engineering.

But whatever it was that made her and the population at large forget about the Bentley clearly wasn’t working at the moment. And it was about to be loaded onto a truck and hauled away.

Abandoning the task of wringing out her coat, Anathema bolted across the street, narrowly avoiding a speeding cab in the process. “Wait!” She stopped the balding man who was bending down to hook his truck to the Bentley’s front bumper. She eyed the car briefly. It looked no different than usual, save for a number of brightly colored parking tickets wilting on its windshield. “What do you think you’re doing?”

The man turned to her. “An American?” His breath smelled of cigarette smoke. “What does it look like, miss?” He gave her a once over. And then a twice over that made the back of her neck prickle. “This your car? You come to pay?”

“No. It’s not mine.” She said in lieu of something far less charitable. 

“Okay. Great, then get outta my way.” The man returned to work dutifully, paying her little more than a last look before setting to his task.

She watched him hook the car before she could find her voice. “You can’t do that.” 

Wiping clean his hands, the man gave her a not so friendly smile. “Oh yeah? Why’s that?”

_ Because you’ll be turned to jelly by a very unhappy demon. _ No, she couldn’t say that. “Because I’m here to pay the fine.”

The man’s gnarled eyebrows shot up. Suddenly he looked much more interested. Funny, how money will do that. “Little good Samaritan, are you? It won’t help unless you can actually get the thing to move before someone puts another ticket on it. The thing hasn’t moved for days and no one’s come to pay up yet.”

_“Days?_ Really?” Ignoring the spike of ice that had just been driven through her guts, Anathema dug through her purse for the checkbook her mom had made her bring. She’d have to bill it to her mom, who would hopefully understand the urgency of her situation once she had the time to explain it. There was something terribly wrong, Crowley maintained that he’d never once been fined or given any ticket of any kind and she believed him simply because it was obvious he wouldn’t _let_ that happen.

Her next glance at the looming bookstore only twisted a knot of apprehension within her.

“Yeah. Oh. Uh. You don’t pay me.”

“Could I, though? What if I add a little extra? Then you could… look the other way.” She really didn’t have time to figure out the intricacies of the London judicial system. She did briefly imagine a sour man in a powdered wig, though.

The man considered her proposition while he chewed on his bottom lip. He eventually shrugged. “Sure. Ah. Don’t skimp me though.” He leered a bit at his own cleverness.

The total on the tickets made her wince, but she cut the check anyway. “Wouldn’t dream of it. And thank you.” 

He took the check from her and whistled. “No, miss. Thank _ you.” _He lingered over long, looking expectantly at her.

She gave him an automatic, courteous smile. It was enough to get him to go away so she didn’t have to resort to brandishing the bread knife she kept tucked away in her belt. And so, while he cleared off the tickets from the Bentley’s window, she sped on to the bookstore.

It’s windows were shuttered, though little lights shone through the slats. The place looked thoroughly closed. But the door gave at the smallest push. Another bad sign. She always had to knock and usually had to do so twice before one of them showed up to unlock the door for her.

Inside was worse still. There were books scattered across the floor, overturned and at spine splitting angles. The sight would have dismayed Aziraphale. The odd downy feathers that littered the scene likely originated from the overturned wreck of the angel’s favorite armchair, its cushions solidly sliced open. There was a sickeningly large chunk cut from one of the wooden columns that she guessed came from the downwards strike of a sword.

Stepping past scattered books, she tried to be practical. That’s what Agnes had trained her for. Quick thinking. Practicality under stress. Ignore the fear boiling in her. She had a job to do. Assess. Decipher. Solve.

She set aside the wine on an undisturbed coffee table. It would have to wait.

They’d been attacked, that much was obvious. 

Heaven and Hell were the most likely. There weren’t exactly hordes of sword wielding maniacs going around breaking into old bookstores. Aziraphale had, after she’d expressed worry about the consequences of betraying Agnes’s legacy, retailed in some length the story of their clever escape from the cruel punishment of Heaven and Hell. He’d made it sound as if they’d be safe for some time. But Crowley, from his spot curled up on Aziraphale’s lap, had muttered a slightly more cautious prediction. 

They _ might _ be safe. For _ a while. _ But obviously not forever.

Maybe that _ while _had come to its end more quickly than they would have liked.

While she was walking, pacing, she knew she wasn’t getting anywhere. She knew too little. If she could just know where they’d gone. If she could have any clue, any hint at all. She was used to hints, mysteries weren’t fair without hints. 

Not for the first time she desperately wished that she hadn’t burned the _ Further Prophecies. _ Agnes would have known what to expect. What to do. How to get her friends back.

But Agnes wasn’t here to guide her. And that was her (and Newt’s) fault.

Then again, she wasn’t just a descendant. She couldn’t let herself be. Newt had been right about that. And Aziraphale had latched onto that idea as well, pushing her to move beyond. Do something right that was all her own. She doubted an attack on his life was what he’d anticipated would get her to try something new. “Alright. Okay, you’ve got this.” With a deep breath, she tried at surveying the scene again.

Another look revealed little more beyond the wreckage. It certainly didn’t get any better. But there was a mess, after all. Which meant there had been a struggle. Which meant there had been time to fight off their attackers. And, maybe, time to leave something telling behind.

That seemed like the kind of thing they might do. At least, she held out some hope.

But where would a secret message go? Would it be addressed to her? Or was she flattering herself? Surely they must have assumed she wanted to help. Because she did. Odd as they were they’d become very dear to her. Like the two well meaning, eccentric uncles she’d never had.

There was only one place she would look first. Who she’d always turned to. She could only hope that either of them had the same thought.

Finding her was the hard part.

After Crowley had tossed the burned remains of _ The Nice and Accurate Prophecies _ to her on the Day the World Didn’t End she’d kept the old book carefully locked away in Jasmine cottage and she tried not to think about it. To immerse herself in living life without it and just live with Newt and be happy. But when that plan fell through she found herself returning to the book.

Not because it would offer her advice, though she naively wished it would. Sometimes, she’d even flip to pages, as if there’d be a new message there, as if she hadn’t long since devoted herself to memorizing its passages. The familiarity was a comfort, even if it came with the lingering scent of burnt leather.

But she couldn’t keep it in the house with her. Too many nights Agnes was her only company. Too many nights she’d skip from page to page, hoping for some guidance she might have missed before. Guidance that was never there. 

After she started meeting with Aziraphale she’d asked if he could hold the book under the promise that it would be kept safe.

Aziraphale had leapt excitedly to the occasion and had taken the book with all the reverence of an entity who understood just how much sentimental and historical value the book held to her and to the world. And she’d been put at ease that there were no better hands it could be in.

So, she went searching for Agnes. She flipped over every scattered book, stacking them in neat piles to relieve the chaos, but to no avail. When she scoured the shelves and found nothing she moved on to the trail of wreckage that extended back into Aziraphale’s back room, picking over and tidying it as best she could given the circumstances.

Carefully stepping her way over an overturned armoire, Anathema got her first look at what had become of Aziraphale’s usually cozy office. Here there were even more books scattered across the floor here and some of them, she recognized with a wince, were in no condition to be tossed with impunity. One of Aziraphale’s ornate old lamps had been knocked over. It’s shattered bulb added the extra peril of broken glass to the already half disassembled room.

It looked like someone had torn apart the office in search of something.

These books were a harder task to sort, since many of them were so old they threatened to crumble away in her hand. It was under the wreckage of the lamp that she finally found her quarry.

Agnes, looking as charred and singed as ever.

The wave of relief that Anathema felt as she laid eyes on her rolled over her like the sight of an old friend she thought was lost forever, come to save the day. Except this old friend was a know-it-all witch who’d been blown up centuries before she was ever born.

When she flipped to the first page her mouth went dry. Burned into the already charred page and doodled on page was a strange sigil and the words _ “bring a water gun” _ written in what looked like Crowley’s hurried cursive.

That surprised her. She’d fully expected it to be Aziraphale who would have thought to leave her a note here. Perhaps Crowley had been paying more attention to her all those late nights than she’d anticipated.

She imagined, only briefly because the act of imagining it only made her sick with worry, the pair facing off against this unknown foe only to realize they were going to lose. In the awful panic Crowley must have slipped back here in search of some way to communicate to her where they’d gone. He’d torn the room apart looking for Agnes’s book. Why Aziraphale, who surely would have known where the book was without tearing apart the room, didn’t get it. Well, she really didn’t want to entertain that thought.

She read over the message again. “Bring a water gun?” Saying it out loud granted her no more insight. “Really? Are you six or six thousand?” The demon often attempted to intentionally frustrate her for a laugh. But under the circumstances it didn’t seem appropriate.

Setting aside the message for the time being, she inspected the charred sigil with a critical eye. Crowley was very lucky she was an occultist who took her studies seriously. It looked very much like a typical banishment. Except for the symbol in the middle, the object of the banishment. And suddenly she understood. 

Crowley hadn’t given her a banishing spell. 

He gave her a front door to Hell. The summoning symbol in the middle wasn’t for the demonically inclined, it was for Earthly entities, like herself. In a stroke of genius he’d flipped the script. But just because he wrote it didn’t it would work. She’d never heard of anything like it before. 

“Oh. You’ve got to be joking.” But the book gave her nothing in return. She resisted the urge to flip to a different page. Agnes couldn’t help her, not with these old prophecies. She was on her own.

And Crowley wanted her to storm Hell. No big deal. As if this were something she’d ever done before or could even do at all. She’d only ever seen a grand total of two demons in her time on Earth and the one of them that was actually evil had been far more interested in an eleven year old boy than herself. 

He wanted her to storm Hell and all he’d given her was the front door and a suggestion on what toys to bring.

She sat opposite the book on one of Aziraphale’s still intact couches and put her head in her hands, hoping to ward off a forming headache. 

_ Days. _ That’s what the man had said. It’s been at least a week since she’d seen them. She had to wonder if they’d been counting them, waiting for her to get the message. Or maybe they weren’t. Maybe time worked differently down there and they’d been trapped for years. Or maybe they were already dead.

That fear curdled in her stomach. She didn’t want to lose the entities that had quickly become her lifeline. And she’d be damned if she were going to just abandoned them. It wasn’t in her nature.

All things considered, she’d be damned either way. 

The rest of the day she spent in a mad dash around London. She visited a number of convenience stores before finding what she needed, a very confused priest who nevertheless did as she requested, an occult store whose owner’s questions she tried to dodge as best she could, and, finally, a sandwich shop. The food helped relieve the headache, and besides, she wasn’t going to die storming Hell on an empty stomach.

She thought briefly of opening her bottle of chardonnay only to decide that, if. Not_ if, _ she firmly reminded herself, but _ when. _ When they got through this, they’d be able to celebrate with it.

The symbol was drawn, painstakingly traced against the wooden floors of the bookshop with red paint dark enough to trick the eye into thinking it was blood. Candles were lit. Before her sat a small, empty stone bowl, waiting to be filled.

She double checked the symbol. It’d do no one any good if she sent herself to Greenland on the back of a misdrawn symbol. Or blew herself up. Which was not exactly a part of Agnes’s legacy she was looking to duplicate.

Everything looked as it should. She would have to trust Crowley. Crowley the demon, Crowley the Serpent. Crowley the man who had hit her with his car and still not apologized for it. 

“Okay, Crowley. Let’s do this.” And, with a final steeling look across the wrecked bookshop, she stepped up to bat with Hell. 

She held out her pendulum over the cursed circle, where it dangled from her hand. “Darkest night,” she spoke quietly, though the words echoed beyond her, amplified by some unknowable power. “Bring to me the fallen. The corrupted. The cursed and forsaken.” Here was where the ritual differed. “Open a passage. Let me pay for my entry.”

Using the bread knife in her belt (and sterilized under a flame to assure she didn’t catch some two hundred year old plague from the dust in Aziraphale’s shop), she sucked in a breath and pressed the knife into the tip of her finger. A thin line of blood ran down it and splattered into the pestle she’d set out. (Like the misconceptions of witches working naked, years of popular culture had far exaggerated the amount of blood needed for such rituals, even ones as taboo as this.)

Then the circle began to glow a sickly red and she stepped back, stemming the blood running from her finger with a handkerchief she was sure Aziraphale had never once used as anything more than decor. She’d apologize later. Or maybe she wouldn’t. It would really depend on whether or not she died in the next three minutes.

The red glow began to overwhelm the room and from the circle burst a dark aura that solidified into a mass like a solid black obelisk. It let off a low, droning hum. “Okay… Very Kubrick.” 

One hand on the small toy pistol she’d shoved into the band of her skirt, Anathema stepped towards the obelisk. Part of her expected to bounce right off it. Instead her hand passed through its reflective surface, which rippled like water. Had she been able to, she would’ve liked to stop and observe the phenomenon. Briefly, she considered whether or not if, like some kind of modern Orpheus, she would be among the first humans to enter Hell before her allotted date with Death. Though she could only hope her venture would be a tad more successful.

The obelisk made a strange sucking, almost slurping sound as she passed beyond it. The space that stretched out before her was the same dark consistency as the obelisk itself. It seemed out of space and time, a rest stop between worlds with an occupancy of one: her. 

_ Walk on. _ Warned a woman’s voice in her head that wasn’t her own. 

So she took another step.


	2. Chapter 2

_ Be brave. Rushe headstrong not. Remain stalwart for a fiery incision through the will of the hoste Above. _

With her next step she found herself somewhere new. Somewhere that stunk like Shadwell’s rancid milk. 

A dark hallway stretched out before her, lit only by flickering yellowed fluorescents positioned between the maze of rusty pipes above her head, which occasionally dripped a mysterious fluid and left the floor a slick safety hazard. Every few feet, between odd, peeling posters with disconcerting messages ( _ Just Give Up! _ Proclaimed one, the words printed in what looked like Papyrus font beneath the image of a crying kitten falling from a tree into the rabid maws of vicious looking dogs) were smooth black doors, and behind those doors, well, who knows. Something awful, more than likely. 

More urgently, there were two demons staring at her. One appeared human, save for the massive, pulsing grub on her head and the patches of rotted skin that dotted her face. The other one had a face that looked like it could have once been human before it had been dropped in a blender. Neither of them had managed to react to her sudden appearance quite yet.

“Who?” Started the blended one, jumping up from where they had been crouching on the floor. Though she couldn’t read their face, the aggression was obvious.

“Put your hands up!” And, from her skirt waist she pulled the plastic neon green water gun she’d bought only an hour before. It didn’t shake.

She’d always been rather fond of old westerns. There was something about the image of a lone figure standing against the forces of evil to protect the town and people they loved that had attracted her as a child. Back when she’d imagined saving the world would be glamorous. Of course, when her time to be that lone figure had finally come, Newt was there. It’d been him had done most of the actual ‘saving the world’ work.

The demons eyeballed the weapon then each other. And then they began to laugh. It was a harsh sound. “Are you-” The grub head doubled over, her laughter echoed down the long dark hall. “Are you joking? Who are you?” She sniffed the air. “Human. You’re lost.”

“I’m here for Aziraphale and Crowley.” Her voice had a tremble. The combined aura of the pair reeked. They were dark, deep pits, filled with a vast, consuming nothingness. She’d thought, naively, that after becoming acquainted with Crowley’s aura the other demons wouldn’t be a problem. She’d been wrong. “Take me to them right now.” She swallowed hard, furious at herself for letting them hear her fear.

She was determined to get rid of it. “Or things get ugly.” 

“Oh, things are going to get ugly, alright.” Muttered the blended one with a kind of razor sharp menace that made her blood run cold.

“We only have one of thems, anyway. Bad luck.” Sneered the maggot. Her companion elbowed her hard in the side. Anathema watched the maggot on her head squirm with indignation. “What?”

“Shut up! Don’t you remember what Dagon said? Don’t talk about him! Do you want angels on us?”

“Oh…” Muttered the maggot, stroking her chin. “I forgot. They wouldn’t come after us for that, would they?”

“They’re _ angels!” _

Looking cowed by her companion, the maggot scowled resentfully. “You’re right… Righteous bastards… But it’s okay! We can deal with this right now and then no one will have to know!” The grin she pulled on Anathema was cruel. Her mouth was full of rotting teeth a few of which squirmed, Anathema realized with revulsion, because they were maggots. “Ignore that.”

“Or don’t. Since we’re gonna eat you now.” Blender face took a step forward. 

Anathema pulled the trigger and watched as a thin stream of holy water squirted directly into the left demon’s amalgamated face. Their scream rattled like a buzz saw.

Horrifically, the demon began to sizzle and boil, as what was left of their face bubbled and hissed. White steam roiled off of them. Anathema watched, frozen in shock, as the demon’s face collapsed in on itself and the screaming abruptly stopped. 

What was left of them dropped to the floor and moments later, little more than a bundle of clothes, still smoking with noxious fumes. 

The maggot headed demon gaped in open mouthed horror at what was left of their comrade. “Oh my. You. For Satan’s sake, you killed them!”

Deciding now was not the time to contemplate whether or not she’d actually just killed someone, she turned it on the maggot. The little water pistol in her hand gained newfound reverence. “You’re next. Unless you want to bring me to my friend.” Finally, her voice steadied, assured these demons could be beaten. 

Though that fact didn’t stop her heart beating like a drum in her ears.

“Okay! Okay, I’ll do it! Please don’t shoot me!” All of the demon’s bravado had gone up in the smoke of their companion. Now the maggot just blubbered and wrang her hands. “He’s- he’s this way.” The demon hesitated as she gestured down the hall, though she seemed reluctant to actually turn her back on Anathema and her weapon.

Still aiming the pistol, Anathema nodded towards the dark. “Lead the way.”

Much to her relief, the sniveling demon did, shuffling miserably down the hall, still begging. “Please don’t kill me. I just work here. I’m just doing my job. You get that, right, miss human? I don’t get caught up in company politics, really. I just do what I’m told.”

“Yeah? And what’s your job?”

“I’m the j-jailer.” The maggot sniffled. 

“So it’s your job to lock people away?”

“Yes! It’s just my job. I’m just doing my job. I don’t even like it. I’d rather be up there tempting! Or something.” The demon, perhaps reaching for some sympathy, clasp her hands together and gave as innocent a look as could be conveyed through her dull, black eyes. “It’s just my job, miss human, you gotta believe me. I’m not worth melting.”

Anathema wrinkled her nose at the display and didn’t lower the water gun an inch. “So? A lot of people have done nasty things just because it’s  _ ‘their job.’  _ That doesn’t make them not evil.”

The demon gave her a blank look.

“Just.” She brandished the water gun. “Just get me to him. No more talking.”

The maggot soured and scowled briefly at her before being menaced into walking again. Not long after they stopped in front of a solid black stone door. “Here.” 

Anathema watched the demon’s eyes dart. Keeping a tight hold on her toy gun, she peered through the small barred window. Inside was pitch black.

“He’s in there.” The demon said nervously. “Really. He is.”

“I heard you.” Not convinced, Anathema peered into the darkness, searching for any sign of life. Finally an aura began to solidify within the depths.

Flinching at the unbridled malice of the thing inside the cell, she pulled back as quickly as she could. And, after a moment to steady herself, she aimed the gun at the demon with new insistence. “That’s not- don’t lie to me again. You can’t trick me.” 

The maggot cowered under the threat. (And beneath a poster featuring a field of totally identical, withered tulips under a grey and stormy sky:  _ Remember! You’re not special!) _ “Fine!  _ Fine. _ Just. Don’t shoot.” After a moment of chewing on her cracked lip, the demon slunk further down the oppressive corridor. “This way…”

This corridor seemed to stretch on forever, with endless copies of the same black door. Anathema tried not to think about what lay behind them. A task that grew harder each time she’d pass by one only to hear a low moan, or frantic scratching at the walls. 

This was a Hell different from the storybooks. But just as unendurable. Just as likely to drive a person, or the angels thrown down from Heaven, mad. She took a moment to look at the wretched creature in front of her with some compassion. Once, maybe, there’d been some good in her, perhaps there still was, but it couldn’t flourish here where joy came to die.

They passed from the long corridors to a series of hard angled stairs which led them down into the depths of Hell. The hallways, while never changing like some endless maze, slowly grew warmer. The air weighed heavy in Anathema’s lungs. “How big is this place?” She asked, left on edge by what must have been more than an hour of shuffling in silence, listening only to the sickening sounds of suffering.

“As big as it needs to be.” The demon said in a tone that discouraged further elaboration.

Finally, after what felt like another hour of hobbling behind the maggot headed demon, they stopped before another door, one that looked the same as the other thousand she’d seen already. “Here…” Muttered the demon resentfully. When Anathema glared at her she grew defensive. “What? You think I’m lying again? I’m not stupid!”

“Neither am I.” Peering into the cell revealed the same darkness as before. Once again she strained to pull an aura out of the dark. It was as if the oppressive power of Hell was dulling her latent occult abilities. When an aura began to solidify inside the cell it emanated from a far corner and nearly matched the edgeless blackness of the cell.

Anathema made to snarl at the demon again. But something in the aura gained a spark of familiar lightness that burst into vibrant, glowing sunset yellow streaks only to be blotted out by blackness once more. Even at just a glance she knew him. “Oh, Crowley.” She murmured, suddenly afraid of what she’d find inside for an entirely new reason. His aura had always been dark, but like a city at night. A shadow that hadn’t bothered to know true blackness since the invention of the light bulb. “Open it. Now.” There was no handle, she realized belatedly when she tried to grab for one.

The demon, taking her small victories, smirked smugly. It was only when she raised the water gun higher that the maggot head made to open the door, snapping her fingers. Out of the flat stone rose a simple handle, which she tugged. The door slid roughly open, all the while making a high pitched scraping. “You wanna get him?” She asked with spectacular shiftiness.

“I’m not an idiot. I walk in there you’ll lock us both up.” Anathema scowled back. 

The demon whistled, impressed. “Oh, that’s clever. You ever thought about working for us?”

“Just get him out.”

Looking disappointed that she wouldn’t play along, the demon slunk inside the cell. “Up,” Anathema heard her mutter. “Come on. Get moving.”

_ “Festus! _ What a  _ nice _ surprise.” Crowley’s voice sounded hoarse, but at least retained his verve. From within the cell there came the distinct sound of shifting chains. “Do tell me I have a visitor. And that it’s not Micheal.”

All Festus did was grumble sourly.

Anathema winced sympathetically as Crowley emerged, blinking, into the dim fluorescent light. He squinted at it like it were the sun and stumbled a bit as he crossed the threshold into the light. There was no white to his eyes and the lack stripped him of some comforting and familiar humanity. His clothes were singed and ripped in places as if they’d been torn during a scuffle and never repaired. He looked pale and unusually gaunt but his yellow eyes lit up upon landing on Anathema. “You got my message!” He kept his smile as he craned his neck, as if expecting backup. “Just you? All by yourself?”

“Uh. What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Nnh, nothing.” He put a hand on Anathema’s shoulder and leaned against her with a casual kind of ease. A facade that slipped moments later, as he buckled, very nearly caving in on himself. 

She grabbed ahold of his arm to keep him standing, realizing that he leaned against her not out of camaraderie but out of necessity. With her other hand she kept ahold of the water pistol. “Are you alright? Aziraphale isn’t with you?”

Crowley darkened. “He… Angels have him. They’ve got plans.” He shifted his weight as he spoke, favoring his left. There were red, raw cuff marks around his wrists. He smelled. Not pleasant, was a kind way to put it.

Anathema noted which of her questions he decided to answer with some pity.

Behind them Festus slunk out of the cell. Anathema ignored her. “What does Hell have to do with this, then?”

“Apparently they’re just helping. You know, back in my day Heaven and Hell were mortal enemies. Not partners on a group project.” His quip was tempered by a grimace. “Speaking of.” Crowley rounded on Festus and suddenly his expression changed to something dark and cruel and cold blooded. He bore down upon the shorter demon who cowered against the cell door. “Festuss.” He hissed. “When we leave make sure to tell dear Micheal to stick a fist up her ass.”

“Y- you’re not going to kill me?” For the first time, Festus looked hopeful. She glanced between Crowley and Anathema, her eyes lingered on her biggest threat, the water gun which Anathema still held close.

Crowley followed her gaze back to the gun. “Oh,” he raised an eyebrow at Anathema. “Have you used it yet?”

“Um, yes.” Loosening what she realized was a white knuckle grip on the gun, she offered it out. Despite the safety it brought with it, the smell of the melted demon lingered at the back of her throat. “Do you want it?”

But Crowley shied away. “No. No, that’s all you. Totally not my scene. Good job, though. Killed your first demon. Big accomplishment, that is.”

“I’m not sure I enjoyed it.” Anathema grimaced. 

“Well, I’m not telling you to make a career out of it.” Like he’d flipped a switch he turned on the menace for Festus once again. “Get in the cell.” He growled. And when Festus didn’t move, he gestured impatiently into the dark. “What are you waiting for? You want a squirt in the face? Because my sidekick here would love to give one to you.”

_ “Sidekick?” _ Anathema questioned, though she played along, aiming the gun at the demon with a determined stance.

Crowley frowned. “You don’t like it?”

“I’m not your sidekick.”

Crowley’s frown turned into a pout. “Just for a minute?”

She rolled her eyes at him but swung her attention back to Festus, who had taken a break from cowering. “You know I’ll do it.”

Apparently sufficiently intimidated, the maggot head backed up. “You said you wouldn’t!”

“Did you get that in writing?” Crowley’s smile was all teeth. “ And you’re still here, aren’t you? Anyway, the cell.” And when Festus hesitated. “What?  _ Are you afraid of the dark?” _ Neither the tone nor the words sounded like his own and with each one he prodded Festus back further and further into the cell. “Don’t worry too much, Festus. They’ll come for you eventually. Well, no, they’ll come for me. But they’ll find you.” With a last bitter, sharp toothed smile and a wide step back, Crowley slammed the stone door in the maggoty demon’s face.

He turned back to Anathema and the performance fell away as the deadly light faded from his eyes and he wilted. His sigh held a thousand years of weight. “Okay. Time to go.” As he spoke he held out his arm.

Anathema took it and was about to ask how they were going to return, since her portal had long since closed behind her, when they were standing back in the bookshop.

“Oh.” He gasped upon viewing it in its current state. He took a step and with the step he tilted and crumpled, folding in on himself like a crumbling building. Anathema couldn’t reach him before he hit the floor. “Ah. That wasn’t supposed to happen.” 

“Are you alright?” She asked and instantly regretted. “I mean. Can I help?”

Adjusting his collar, Crowley held out a hand. “A hand would be nice to start with.”

He rose with lithe ease despite his obvious aches, bending at some unsettling angles as he did. Anathema chose not to question it. He removed himself from her as soon as he was able, though she kept a hand hovering near his elbow and waited. Which Crowley rewarded with a scoff.

To prove his point, he took another step. Mid stride, as if he’d been caught on a shoelace, Crowley tumbled again. Anathema only barely caught him, grabbing him by the arm. “That wasn’t me.” He said, peering down at his ankles.

“Yeah. I got that.” She saved him an  _ I told you so _ . “C’mon.” Together they staggered towards a torn armchair. Anathema watched Crowley’s shuffling feet carefully, hoping for something to reveal itself. But no luck. 

Crowley simply slumped into the chair and grimaced. “Is it hot in here?” He asked, scratching at the hollow of his throat. “I feel like I’m burning up.”

Anathema tensed. After a lifetime of studying prophetic words, she had a knack for spotting them; even if it was just Crowley, who himself was prone to hysterics. 

Slumped in his chair, Crowley looked distinctly ill. Despite a shiver, a thin sheen of sweat clung to him. His hair fell out of place and stuck to the edges of his face.

“Did Hell do anything to you?”

“Do anything? They threw me in a cell and left me to rot, doess that count?” He hissed. Though her glare wilted him slightly. “No, they didn’t do anything. Just solitary confinement. Honestly, I got off easy.” Trying again to adjust his collar, Crowley gaze roved restlessly around the shop. “Don’t you have some kind of… spell or something? To give me a clean bill of health.”

“How do you think magic works?”

“How do  _ you _ think it works?” 

Frustrated and at a stalemate, Anathema turned around and walked away from him.

When she got far enough Crowley called out after her, seemingly to realize she’d left him chair bound. “Hey! Hey, where are you going?”

“To get away from you.” Which was a half truth and perhaps crueler than she’d intended. But it shut him up.

The other half of the truth was that she’d set out in search of Aziraphale’s books of witchery and spellcraft. But she had only her memory to rely on, and that memory was soaked in a bottle’s worth of red wine. If only she’d known this would happen, then she could have been ready. She could have prepared. If only.

But that was when Agnes was around. She didn’t have Agnes anymore. She couldn’t afford to think like that, it was only wasting time.

Still, she thought it.

In the middle of her search she heard a loud, if distant, crash. And then a sort of pained yip from Crowley. “Ah. Come back!” Even from afar, he sounded strained. “Please!” He added moments later, a new note of panic entering his voice.

It was enough to propel her back. She found him sitting on the floor, knees drawn up to his chest. A lamp was scattered beside him, evidence of his attempt to stand. Both hands clutched at the scarf around his neck.

Or what she thought was his scarf. As Anathema approached she saw quite clearly that his scarf was not the problem. In fact, it lay on the ground beside him. What he clung to was a thin, golden, wirelike loop that had wound itself tightly around his neck. He clung to it, his fingers wedged between the wire and his vulnerable skin. “Yeah.” He said upon her return. “Looks bad?”

“It doesn’t look great.” She confirmed, kneeling down beside him. There was another loop around his ankles. It had tightened to the point that they were nearly strung together. “Is this something from Hell?”

“Not their style. Has to be Heaven. I can’t get it off with a demonic miracle. You do something.”

“What, exactly?” The more she inspected the wire, the less confident she became. It was thin, really only a few strands thick, but it gave off a steady glow that made the actual wire hard to parse. She saw no seam, latch, or any sign that it had been anything but a loop fitted snugly around Crowley’s neck. 

“Dunno.”

“Does that  _ hurt?” _

Crowley grimaced. “Doesn’t feel great.”

“Okay. Hold on.” Anathema ran a finger around the rope. It gave off a faint heat, warm but not unpleasantly so. She tentatively slipped a few fingers between the wire and Crowley’s skin and tugged.

And felt the metal heat beneath her fingers, digging itself deeper into Crowley’s skin as it did. The noise he made was something between a yelp and a whimper.  _ “No!  _ No. Bad. That’s what it did when I tried to miracle it away.”

Cradling her stinging fingers, Anathema worried over the loop. “They wouldn’t make something that could kill you, would they?”

“Nn. Hm...” His hesitation didn’t inspire confidence. “I don’t think that’s what they’re after. They just don’t want me running off.” He glared down at his bound ankles. “No, this won’t kill me. Might discorporate me though, if it gets too tight.” He made a small  _ pop  _ with his mouth and slipped a hand from the wire to mime his head rolling across the floor.

Anathema frowned. “We’re not going to let it get there.”

“I think that’d put a damper on the evening.” Crowley kept his tone light and unbothered. It was in stark contrast to everything about his body language, which screamed with the fear of a trapped animal. From his wound pose, moments from springing up and away if only the snare would let him, to his hand, clinging at the wire in a vain attempt to keep it from the vulnerable skin of his neck. He was hunted. And afraid.

Anthema searched the bookshop. Then smacked a palm against her forehead and pulled her bread knife from her belt.

Crowley eyed it apprehensively.

“Have any other ideas?” She asked, in lieu of an explanation. 

“If I did I’d let you know. Just.” He shook his head. “Try it.”

Holding her breath, Anathema slipped the knife between the loop near Crowley’s feet. She wasn’t quite confident enough to try it at his throat. When it was fitted snugly she turned its blade towards the wire and ripped upwards. At first, the thing gave. Anathema saw one of the wires sheer away under the blade’s sharp edge.

But then, as if in retribution, the remaining wires burned white hot and shrunk against the knife, melting the metal like it was butter.

Crowley howled. It was a wretched sound. His foot whistled past her head as he lashed out blindly.

Anathema scrambled back to avoid further attacks. She tore at her hair. Things were rapidly disintegrating. “Ah! I’m sorry! If I had Agnes I would’ve known. I could’ve prepared!”

_ “Agnes?!” _ Crowley hissed as the metal began to cool. The cutting metal had stolen the full range of his voice from him, leaving him with a slight wheeze. “What the devil are you talking about?” A second later he answered his own question. _ “The witch?”  _ His outrage scathed. “What does she have to do with this?”

“I just. If she’d told us I could have brought pliers!”

He stared at her as if she’d grown two heads.  _ “Pliers.” _ He repeated incredulously.

“Or… something.”

“Girl, _ let go.”  _ With the hand that wasn’t trapped within the wire, Crowley snatched her wrist. His grip was strong, but shook slightly, evidence of the pain he concealed. “She’s gone. She’s not going to fix this.”

“Then who is? Because I’m clearly not good enough on my own!”

A pained expression fluttered across Crowley’s face. But it didn’t last long before he locked it away. “You’re not on your own.” He said softly.

“I-” She couldn’t look him in the eye and disagree. 

“You’re clever, aren’t you? Stop worrying about some dead witch and use that head you’ve got.”

“... Right.”

Crowley gave her an encouraging, if brittle, smile. “That’s the spirit. Now, what were you saying about pliers?”

She blinked. But he seemed to be seriously interested. At this point he’d give anything a try, she supposed. “It would probably work. The wire  _ can  _ break, I know that now. It’s a good, quick cut. That’d be the best way to avoid the, uh, side effects.” 

“Hm.” Crowley looked thoughtful.

“But I don’t have any.” She wiped a thin sheen of sweat from her forehead and peered out towards the street. It was dark now. Late, though the exact time escaped her. “And I don’t even know where to get one here. It’s not like this is America. You can’t just buy one at a gas station.”

“Mh-hm.” Crowley agreed, but he sounded like he was humoring her. “Or. You could just take this one.” In one hand he dangled a pair of shiny black pliers.

“Where-?”

“I’m a  _ demon.”  _

“Oh my God.”

“Actually, the name’s Crowley.” He briefly grinned, unable to pass up the opportunity.

“You- just. Give them to me.” 

They were heavy in her hand. Very solid. Extremely ordinary. They gave no indication they’d just been imagined from thin air.

“Okay.” She took a breath and ceased her inspection, returning to Crowley. “This won’t be fun.” The cut may be quick, but there would still be one. And there would be vengeance for it, no matter how swiftly she clipped, they’d already seen that.

A grimness settled over Crowley as his eyes glazed over and became distant. “Just get it over with.” He said, though she could tell he was already elsewhere. 

Ankles first. Easy enough. She slipped the pliers between the space left by his legs and, after a dry swallow, pressed down and hoped for the best. She felt the wires begin to give. Felt a flash of heat and shielded her eyes from a burning light. Then felt the wires snap. 

She looked back to see the wires fall to the ground, nothing more than flimsy gold loops that dropped harmlessly to the floor. They left behind red, raw marks. She could smell the cooked flesh. 

Crowley remained eerily silent.

Fighting uncertainty, she pressed her face into the crook of her elbow simply to escape the smell and the sight. The only thing she heard from Crowley was the sound of him breathing heavily through his nose. When she did look back, she could see a muscle in his jaw jumping.

The loop around his neck shone, golden, defiant.

Unsure, she held the pliers close and waited for permission.

He didn’t take her apologetic look well. “Oh, don’t be a tease. Do it.”

She tried again to find an easy hollow in which to slip the pliers. But the wire had dug itself firmly into Crowley’s skin, any tighter and it would have drawn blood. It took only a few moments for her to make up her mind on what needed to be done. “Get ready,” she warned, and felt Crowley go still.

She worked first her nails, then her fingers beneath the wires. They were already warming, not unlike the feel of a fresh mug of coffee, almost inviting. As she pulled, stretching the wire outwards though, they began to heat up. First, like hot sand. Then, as she slipped the pliers into place came a wave of heat, like she’d stepped too close to a campfire.

As the pliers clipped down, she pulled her fingers away. Not fast enough. It was like a hot lash had come down across her fingertips. Her cry was drowned by Crowley’s.

When it was over, though. They both went silent. The pliers clattered to the wooden floor.

Anathema cradled her hand. Across the tips of her fingers swept an angry red swath. A pale blister was already forming on her pointer. It was a throbbing pain, the kind made worse with every beat of her heart.

Crowley’s shadow grew and she looked up to see him rising unsteadily to his feet. She caught only a glimpse of the ugly mark that curved around the width of his neck before he wiped a quaking hand across it and it was gone. He held out the hand and when she didn’t move, pursed his lips. “Let me see it.”

With a snap of his fingers her offered palm healed itself. The pain that had been so persistent was wiped away in an instant. “Thank you.”

“Don’t mention it.” Crowley muttered, turning away. He paced the width of their circle with the restless urgency of a caged animal, swinging his head from side to side, taking in the destruction of the bookstore unhindered for the first time. She could tell it disturbed him. “No. I. We can’t stay here.” Without further explanation, he turned sharply and disappeared out the front door. 

Anathema followed. The night was cool and the mist had let up, leaving only a thin layer of low hanging clouds that left the streets foggy, though not deserted. Bar hoppers straggled through the streets. 

“Where are you going?” Anathema asked. Crowley had already made it to the Bentley, gone so far as to open the door. But he didn’t step in, not yet.

“Away from here.” He said obtusely. “I suppose I should offer you a ride to Tadfield.”

“What? No, I’m coming with you! We still have to rescue Aziraphale.”

“You’re right. I do.”

“No ‘I,’ it’s we. I mean, I broke you out of Hell, didn’t I? Does that count for nothing?”

He barked a bitter laugh. “You did and it was very Rambo. But this is Heaven. It’s different.” He rapped his knuckles against the hood of the Bentley. “No, no, you did great. But you’re done.”

“No! What are you talking about?” She raised her voice.

Crowley matched her.  _ “I mean _ you’re not going to Heaven.”

“What!?” Anathema saw red.  _ “You’re _ telling me no? To rebelling against Heaven?  _ You?” _

The Serpent Of Eden reared his head back and grimaced. “That was different. I wasn’t luring them into the jaws of death.”

“You’re not-“

“You don’t get it!” Crowley threw his hands in the air, consumed by a manic energy that only seemed to be growing out of his morbidity. “This is  _ Heaven. _ The Empyrean? That Which Comes Hereafter? I could go on! No one could just saunter up there and sneak in through their unlocked back door. Us especially!” Their shouting attracted no small amount of attention from the scrappy crowd. Heads turned. The streetlamp above Crowley’s car acted like a spotlight on the pair of them.

“Can’t you get us in?” She lowered her voice, leaning across the hood of the Bentley.

Crowley’s smile was too wide. “You think they let me keep a key when they kicked me to the curb?”

“No. I. I didn’t mean that.” She stumbled over herself. “I thought maybe you knew a, um. A back entrance.”

“That’s what I mean! There is no back entrance. It’s Heaven! Pearly Gates or bust!”

“But you’ve been in before.”

“Yeah, because they demonnapped me!”

She stared at him and raised an eyebrow. He glared back at her and furrowed his.

“No.” He put his foot down. “Absolutely not. Anyway, even if that worked, you're not going to Heaven.”

“That’s not your decision to make.” Taking the opportunity to lean on the Bentley, Anathema wished Crowley hadn’t retreated behind it. She felt the distance cut the intensity out from under her. 

Crowley pointed at her with both hands, as if she were ignoring the obvious. “I’m not- You’re mortal! One day, one way or another, you will die.” Anathema blinked at the abrupt reminder. “And when that happens I don’t want this to impact where you end up! If you make enemies with Heaven now. Like this? It won’t be pretty when Death comes knocking. I’m… saving your mortal soul. I guess.” At that, Crowley made a sour face, like he’d stepped in something foul.

“Maybe our haven’t noticed but based on the way my life is going so far I’m not getting into Heaven whether or not I help you.” Had she told herself just a year ago that she’d spend a Friday night discussing the fate of her mortal soul, with a demon, no less, she wouldn’t have believed herself. 

The demon gave her a once over. “Don’t be stupid. You’ve already been too involved. Get in the car. I can give you a ride home.” He extended the offer again. It was genuine still.

But Anathema shook her head. Much as she would love to slip into bed and sleep off this entire nightmare of a day, she knew what would actually happen. Staring at the dark ceiling, with her conscious criticizing her for letting her friends down. She wasn’t going to sleep tonight. She couldn’t. Not after this. “I’ve already told you. I’m coming with you. Not up for negotiation.”

Crowley scowled at her then seemed to give up as he shook his head.  _ “Humans.” _ He muttered the same way a tired mother might sigh  _ “kids.” _

Anathema couldn’t quite tell if she should be offended by that or not. So she threw him a scowl as she slipped into the Bentley’s backseat. 

Then she realized what she’d done and froze.

Crowley failed to notice, turning on the car with a habitual ease. It wasn’t until he checked in the rear-view and their eyes locked, his little more than a flash of yellow in the small, darkened mirror, that his routine slammed to a halt.

His eyes, made luminous by the similarly yellowed street light around them, darted to the empty seat on his left, before returning to her in the mirror. They were blank, rid of all coherent thought and emotion. Stripped bare by the proof of his loss.

He rebooted with a long blink and his eyes disappeared from the rear-view. After a moment’s longer hesitation he reached swiftly across the elephant in the car and popped open the glove compartment. Inside was a veritable avalanche of sunglasses, one of which he snatched up and slipped on.

Suddenly, he was crisp, clean Crowley again.

Except no. He would have been, had Anathema not been close enough to see the brittle lines etched into his face, spotlighted by that same yellowed light. 

When Crowley gripped the steering wheel, the Bentley roared to life.

The drive to Crowley’s flat was white knuckled. Had she been able to find her tongue from where it had been flattened against the back of her throat, she might have mentioned that this was possibly a very efficient way to send her to Heaven. Or the other place. 

In between their silence, Freddy mourned his melancholy blues.


	3. Chapter 3

_ Plante thy truth in The Serpent’s garden lest it never growe beyond the weeds. _

Crowley’s flat, when compared to Aziraphale’s cozy, if practically claustrophobic store was cold and impersonal. It was sleek and modern in a way that any brutalist would have envied. In some ways reminded her of her parent’s home back in California. But where her mom trusted windows and the California sun to add some life back to the sharp edges of all things modern, Crowley’s home was just grey and empty and cold. 

Anathema might have asked Crowley about his choice in decor had he not vanished into the depths of his apartment moments after letting her through the door. She’d let him go, deciding that it trying to stop him wasn’t worth the potentially messy consequences.

He was falling apart. It was obvious. No amount of Queen could cover up the way his hands trembled on the steering wheel, or his own deadly silence. He himself seemed to have realized that each breath he took shuddered, so he’d stopped breathing altogether. 

Without Aziraphale, Crowley only company was his survivors guilt.

Which was, more than likely, what consumed him now. And would consume him, if he couldn’t pull himself together. 

Anathema moved carefully from the entryway further into the flat, finding the least inviting living room she’d ever seen, with its harsh angled, almost stonelike grey couches arranged with such neatness they could have just come off the showroom. It looked very expensive. And distinctly unpersonalized.

She sat on the edge of one of the slab-like couches. Somehow, it was less comfortable than it appeared.

What she needed to do was obvious. She needed to go to Crowley and get him to talk. Coax him to spill out all of the venom and bile that Hell had been shoving into him for the last few days so they could come together and save Aziraphale together.

But that just wasn’t her forte. She wasn’t a comforter, she was a doer. All she wanted to do right now was hurry up and save Aziraphale. Then  _ he _ could fix things. He would know exactly what to say to Crowley.

Like Agnes, she wanted to rely on him.

Like Agnes, he was gone.

Which left only Anathema. 

This would be easier if she knew Crowley as she’d begun to know Aziraphale. Crowley had, in the time since she’d begun her tentative relationship with the couple, hardly let her past his facade and, by the way he’d withdrawn himself in this, his safest and most private of places, he felt he’d already shown her too much beneath it today. Getting through to him would be like bathing a cat. And, while she descended from witches and therefore felt partial towards the creatures, she’d always preferred something simpler. Like the goldfish Mom had gotten her for her twelfth birthday.

A goldfish wouldn’t so much as scratch her. Or hit her with its car. Or need her to talk through its emotional baggage. All it wanted was food.

Very low maintenance, perfect for the aspiring Apocalypse Averter. 

She checked her phone. It was nearly midnight now and the price of the day’s events was making itself evident. Exhaustion had crept up on her. Too many nearly sleepless nights had left her drawn thin. She’d made it this far with plenty of adrenaline and a clear goal in mind. Now she didn’t have one. And everything she’d been able to ignore was weighing on her.

“Coffee? He’s has to.” She murmured vaguely, taking another look around Crowley’s flat and this time paying particular attention to the sleek black coffee maker that sat on the spotless, black marble kitchen counters.  _ “Aha.”  _

A perfunctory search through the cabinets revealed to her far more options than she anticipated. There had to be at least twenty bags of coffee beans, no two were the same and some of them looked very old, though she guessed not one of them had the poor sense to go stale. All of them had been opened, though some were more neatly folded down than others. Most of them didn’t even have real labels, just small, sometimes lengthy handwritten explanations of the flavor, exactly how long to brew them down to the very second, and either the optimal time to enjoy them or a small anecdote. 

_ Bavarian Chocolate. 4 minutes 42 seconds. Scrummy! Reminds me of Romania, ‘76. xxx A. _ Read one. 

Anathema couldn’t bring herself to so much as touch them.

Giving up on that dream meant there was nothing more to distract her from the task of Crowley, lurking out of sight somewhere in the depths of his apartment. She couldn’t even reliably be frustrated with Crowley for thrusting this upon her, not after what he’d been through. 

But she was already struggling with the weight of holding them together. It was ridiculous that this had even happened at all. That Heaven, and Hell to a lesser extent, allowed it to happen. More than that, they created it. For omnipotent entities older than the calendar, they acted like nothing more than petty kids. 

Honestly, they were worse. At least, worse than the Them. Adam and his gang argued, and often wrestled over the smallest disagreement, but one of them always rose as a voice of reason to sort things out. Heaven and Hell didn’t seem to have that person. 

They should’ve. God should’ve stepped in. Been that voice. Anyone with reason could see that Aziraphale and Crowley wanted nothing more to do with Heaven or Hell. That they would be perfectly happy never being bothered again. If she could see that, why couldn’t God?

“Do you even care or… or do you want this?” Anathema asked the dead air, feeling like she was doing this wrong. The only force she’d ever needed to rely on before had been Agnes. Agnes had the answers she needed.

She was quite certain you were supposed to talk to God a specific way. But she doubted that, in the same way she doubted Agnes, God was even listening. So it didn’t really matter.

She passed from one room to the other, searching cautiously for Crowley. She found him aggressively tending to a room full of the lushest houseplants she’d ever seen. He misted violently, all the while looking like he wanted to murder them. From the safety of the doorway she watched him labor excessively over the plants, using the end of the plant mister to pick over leaf after leaf. “Ugh, not nearly good enough. Shape up!” He picked at a wilting leaf. “What’s this?” The plant in question, some flowering, tropical thing, began to tremble. “Are you trying to disappoint me?” His threats came with an all too real viciousness. “Because it’s working.”

Crowley might not have a single of the odd posters Anathema had seen scattered on Hell’s walls, but she recognized their rhetoric. And he was repeating it now, spewing it at the plants as it had been delivered to him. Mercilessly.

She stepped into the room and clasp her hands together, fighting past the wave of apprehension that rolled over her. “We need to talk.”

Crowley turned to look at her, though didn’t linger longer than a cursory glance before returning to his plants. “Need is a strong word. You’re looking tired. I have a couch. If I were you I’d be trying to get some sleep on it.”

“Not right now.” She watched him mist for a few moments more, hoping he’d eventually give in without having to push for it. No such luck. “What happened in Hell?”

Crowley stiffened. “Doesn’t matter.” He eventually forced out, shrugging stiffly as he moved from one plant to another. 

“It does.” Anathema insisted, starting a slow lap around the lush room, taking the long way to get to Crowley. “You can talk about it.” She could only hope she was going about this the right way.

“I really think we have bigger things to worry about.”

“Yeah.” Anathema agreed. “But we can’t even start on that before we resolve this.”

Crowley continued to wind a slow circuitous circle around her, safe under the pretext of checking his plants. “I told you. It was typical Hell, really. Well, other than Micheal.”

_ “Crowley.” _ She protested. 

“What?” Crowley made the mistake of facing her. Even behind his dark glasses, Anathema saw how he winced at her scowl. The flinch went through his whole body. “Besides,” he muttered, turning back to his plants to avoid her. “I don’t see how its your business. Doesn’t hurt you.”

Anathema spared him, sucking in a deep breath. “I don’t know if you realize this,” she started testily. “But you kinda made it my business by giving me the key to Hell.” Crowley didn’t respond. But he didn’t continue watering his plants either. He went still. Listening to her. Good, it was about time. “Sure, you can deny that all you want because I didn’t get hurt. But what if I had? What if I’d met someone other than Tweedledee and Tweedledum? What if I’d met Micheal?” She asked, gesturing at the stone beneath her feet because she still wasn’t quite solid on where, spatially, Hell was. Or if it was anywhere at all. “Well?”

The plant Crowley had stopped before was among the tallest in his collection. Had it, by some odd or miraculous circumstances, been dropped into the world’s most verdant jungles, no one would have been any the wiser. It was meticulous, a living showcase to Crowley’s skill and dedication. A statement, proclaiming to anyone who set eyes upon it exactly what kind of person it's gardener was. And, currently, it was trembling. “I’m glad you didn’t. I already have enough blood on my hands.” As he spoke he set down his plant mister and let his hands fall to his side, where they fidgeted and twitched. “I think they wanted to use me against Aziraphale.” He said softly.

Anathema’s gut lurched. At least he was talking, even if what he was saying wasn’t good. “How?”

“Dunno. But they didn’t kill me. Which means they needed me alive. I thought they might just.” Crowley crossed his arms and jerked one thumb against his throat. “Get it over with.” His face was grim. “But I’m still kicking.”

“That’s good. If they have a plan and it involves both of you, they can’t exactly finish it without you.”

Crowley just hummed doubtfully.

So Anathema pushed on. “Did they mention anything specific?”

His response was a short, jerky, shake of his head. “Nn. Didn’t get a lot of company. And Micheal is a dick but not stupid, unfortunately.” A tilt of his head let light creep past his sunglasses. His eyes were distant. “I have some ideas, though.” 

If possible, the knot in Anathema’s stomach grew. “And those are?”

Crowley rocked on his heels, tilting wildly one way and then the other. “They already tried Hellfire. Too bad we got ahead of them. There aren’t too many ways to get rid of an angel.”

“I can read your aura, not your mind.”

Tutting irritably, Crowley fixed Anathema with a glassy stare. “They’re going to cast him out.”

“Haven’t they already?”

“No. Not in an official capacity. That’s why he’s still an angel. I mean.” Crowley’s smile was curled by bitterness. “You think he looks like a demon?”

“... No.” Even his aura still shone angelic. It was a constant onslaught of love and light, Anathema often had to tune it out to avoid utter sensory overload. “But… can angels even do that?” She saw the answer flash painfully across Crowley’s face.  _ “No.” _ She tried to deny. “That’s not- God? You think God is going to cast him out?”

“I hope I’m wrong.” From behind his glasses, Anathema saw his eyes flutter shut as he sent off a silent prayer. To who, she didn’t know. Perhaps whoever would listen. “I’ve never wanted to be more wrong.”

“Why would they need you for that, though?” She grasped at straws, trying for some other explanation. She didn’t know what falling meant. But it frightened Crowley. And that frightened her. 

Crowley tilted his head back to stare up at the skylights above their heads. Or, more likely, beyond them. “I dunno. Because it’s my fault. Is that it? Are you just trying to make us both suffer?”

“What?” Anathema, having just thrown on her own accusation at God, knew what he was doing, though didn’t know what he meant by it.

Crowley turned on his heel to fix her with a frustrated grimace. His hands clutched at his chest, pleading. “Micheal said it was my fault. She said that. That if I had just minded my own business, none of this would have happened,”

“But that’s Micheal, not God. And since when has God interfered with this? If it wasn’t at the apocalypse why now?”

“Who knows! ! She’s bloody ineffable!” He tore at his hair, threatening to rip it up from the roots. “If he falls because of me… I... _ ” _ Crowley’s voice wavered on breaking.

Anathema swallowed past the lump in her throat. “He’s not going to. And it’s not your fault. None of this is your fault.”

“You don’t know that!” Crowley snapped.

“Neither do you!” She pushed back. “You’re really going to trust the word of someone who hates you? What if Micheal lied?”

Crowley made to snarl at her, but his words failed him mid grimace. He withdrew, but kept a doubtful frown. “Because it makes sense. After everything he’s done.  _ I’ve _ done. Take a step out of line and.” The lines around Crowley’s scowl hardened.

“But he hasn’t done anything wrong! Neither of you have.”

“Not in your eyes, maybe. But Heaven sees things differently.”

“Aren’t there rules about this?”

“No.  _ Yes _ . I don’t. No one knows! It’s God! She just… makes up rules!” He threw an accusatory finger to the sky. “Up there in Her ivory tower, casting us out whenever She feels like it. You know, I was… beginning to think she wouldn’t do it.”

Anathema picked up the note of despondency that had entered his voice. “Why?”

“Because it hadn’t been done already. I mean.” He pressed his mouth into a thin line. “I just made a mistake” Falling silent, Crowley resorted to shaking his head against the bad memories.

“Isn’t that good, then? That she hasn’t done anything to Aziraphale. If it hasn’t already been done maybe She’s just not interested.” 

Crowley snorted. “Oh, She cares.” He ducked his head. “I should’ve never… It was a stupid dream. And now I’ve drawn Aziraphale down with me.” He seemed to sharpen under his curdling frustration. “He would’ve been better off without me.”

“That’s stupid.” Anathema blurted out. But the outburst seemed to take Crowley aback, as he fell silent, his mouth open in a little, twisted ‘O.’ “Come on.” She cleared her throat. “I see you two together. And. You seem. You’re so happy. It’s. It’s just.” What wavered on the edge of her tongue she hadn’t yet said aloud. “When we first started talking I almost couldn’t bear it. I saw what you two have and I. I was _ so envious _ . Because I  _ never.”  _ Her words threatened to choke her. “I never once felt that way with Newt. You two. You made me realize what love is supposed to look like. And feel like! And that, yeah, I wasn’t crazy for leaving Newt! And you thinking that Aziraphale would be happier without you? That’s dumb.  _ And _ it’s not true. You know that.” And, because she feared that if she didn’t say it Crowley wouldn’t acknowledge it, she added, looking up at him: “You know Aziraphale loves you, right?”

Crowley stood stock still, struck dumb by her words. Seeming to realize this, he snapped his mouth shut into a neutral line and looked away, still silent. His glasses were inscrutable.

She realized, belatedly, that upsetting him might not have been her best idea. “I. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to...”

“Ss fine.” Crowley mumbled. Then he rolled his shoulders and breathed for the first time since they’d stepped from the Bentley. It was a heavy sound. A burden he wasn’t built for. Then he turned back and softened. Some blush rose to his cheeks. “I. Uh. You really think that?”

“You don’t?” Anathema pushed against his hesitancy, unwilling to accept it. “Aziraphale- you know when you get Aziraphale talking?” And Crowley’s lips twitched. Some of the lines around his eyes softened. “He does that about you. Whenever you’re not around. He _ gushes, _ Crowley. Like you hung the moon.” 

To her surprise, he snapped from his trance with a scoff as he rebounded. “I’d hope not. That was a slack job.”

Anathema started. “What?”

“The  _ moon.” _ Crowley grimaced, though he began to slowly unwind the tangle his anxiety had wound him into. “I mean, it looks real nice from  _ here. _ But the backside? That’s rough. Not even finished. And when I tried to bring it up, what’d they say?” He slipped into a nasally impression.  _ “Oh, no one’ll see it. Go do your job.”  _ No work ethic at all.”

“You’re deflecting again.”

“Am not. You want coffee?” Anathema didn’t recover from the emotional whiplash in time to say. Crowley was already walking off. “You take sugar, yeah? And cream.”

She caught up with him, finding her tongue. “Yes, but.”

“Great. Great.” Nodding to himself, Crowley pulled two dark mugs from his cupboards. They clinked against each other. He looked annoyed when he saw her standing beside him and waved her back. “What’re you doing? Sit. I think know how to make coffee, I’ve been doing it for a few hundred years now.”

Anathema stepped back but not down. “You’re not getting out of this.”

“For Satan’s sake, you’re stubborn.” For her benefit Crowley pulled his glasses back into his hair. His eyes had regained their human-adjacent white sclera. “You’re right. You want to hear it? You’re right. And we’re not going to get anywhere if we just sit here despairing.”

_ “We?” _

Crowley gave her a withering look. “Yes, obviously. Look at yourself, you’re a mess.” And, while he wasn’t wrong, a train ride to Soho, a rainy morning, an impromptu trip to Hell, none of them had done any good for her, she still felt rather stung. Never mind that she hadn’t even tried to find a mirror to rectify herself, thinking that with no end in sight it was better to live in ignorance. “So  _ sit down.  _ We’ll talk then. I’ll promise if I must. Would that satisfy you? _ ” _

She considered him for a long moment, undeterred by the impatient tapping of his nails against the ceramic mugs. “I don’t need a promise, I believe you.”

“I’m honored.” He said dryly. “Now shoo.”

At his urging, she did, savoring the opportunity to pass along the mantle of control. She closed her eyes as she slumped against the couch. It had grown no more comfortable in the last minutes but at the moment she couldn’t bring herself to care.

When the aroma of freshly brewed coffee began to emanate from the kitchen, she opened them again. Crowley returned to her, offering her a steaming mug. They met eyes for a moment and Anathema understood the offering as the closest thing to a  _ thank you _ she was going to get from him. She nodded and taking up a blocky armchair.

While he arranged himself, Anathema cradled the mug like a lifeline. She luxuriated in the warmth it brought. “Ohh, you’re saving my life.”

“I’m not trying to make a habit of it.”

The black coffee tasted like chocolate and, once it had left the tongue, tart cherries. She wondered, briefly, what sweet little note Aziraphale had penned for it.

For a long moment they simply enjoyed the coffee, neither probed the silence.

Crowley, leaning back in his armchair and balancing the mug in his lap, was the first to speak. “So. Long day, hm?”

Anathema couldn’t help but breathe a laugh. “Long day.” She agreed. 

“It’s not over yet.”

“Yeah.” She sighed. To mollify herself, she took a long draw from her mug.

Crowley followed suit. “You really want to face off against Heaven?”

“It can’t be any worse than Hell.” Right? She couldn’t imagine.

“They’re not in the basement, if that’s what you mean.” Crowley’s mug vanished behind his interlaced fingers. “Company’s not any better. And the holier-than-thou shtick got old, oh, give or take six thousand years ago.”

Anathema smiled. Though the next thought that occurred to her wiped it away. “Tell me honestly, if we actually make it to Heaven, what are the odds that I’ll die?”

His thoughtful silence inspired less confidence the longer it stretched on. “Well… you have a better chance than the rest of us. I’d say, mm, fifty-fifty. But it wouldn’t be personal, it’d just be because you annoy them. They’d think of it like getting rid of a pest.”

“Oh, well that’s comforting.” 

“You told me to be honest.”

They lapsed again into silence. She’d been faced with a possible death before. At the direction of Agnes she’d traveled to England. To the place the world would end, to stand in the crossfire. Death had always been there, a possible option. The price of failure.

The idea that she would die here, though. After stopping the apocalypse. At the hands of angels. The wrongness of it, the injustice, left her quietly stewing. 

“Have you  _ always _ followed ‘ _ The Word of Agnes?’” _ Crowley asked abruptly, supplying his own air quotes.

“It’s not like that.” Came the instinctive defense. But she doubted it instantly.

“Oh? So it’s normal to let a book choose who you date?”

“She was always right!” She snapped, defensive. He didn’t understand. He couldn’t. “What was I supposed to think? And my mom showed me that prophecy when I was thirteen!  _ Thirteen!”  _ Some of the hot coffee splashed from her mug as she gesticulated, scalding her hands.

“That’s just irresponsible parenting.”

“What do you know about parenting?”

Even through his sunglasses, Anathema saw Crowley’s eyes narrow dangerously. “No wonder you’re a disaster.” He said pointedly. “You’ve thought you had the plan for that long. Of course you would self destruct when it ran out. I’m not even clairvoyant and I could have predicted that.”

“It didn’t have to run out. Agnes sent more predictions…”

“And you burned them, yeah. I’m caught up.” Crowley smiled wryly at her start of surprise. “I listen. And I agree with the angel, that was the right idea, burning them.”

Anathema nodded numbly, quietly nursing her hand. “I know it was. But-”

“But it was so much simpler.”

“There’s nothing simple about Agnes.”

“Maybe not. But it’s easier to follow directions. To stay the same. What you already knew, decoding Agnes’s prophecies. That was simple. And familiar.” Crowley paused briefly for her disagreement. None came. “But you burned them and now Agnes can’t talk to you. You feel like she’s abandoned you because obviously she should have seen you burning her work. You feel like it’s your fault you’re lost. That you scorned her and now she’s left you to fend for yourself and make all the wrong decisions. Am I wrong?”

“... No.” She conceded. He spoke impatiently, succinctly laying her life out on the coffee table between them.

“And you clung to Newt because he was the last thing she gave to you.”

Anathema flushed, her cheeks lighting up with something like shame.

“So, yes.” When Crowley next spoke his voice was softer. “You realized it all on your own and left, defying Agnes. That’s not easy and you did it all on your own. Without her. Give yourself some credit.”

“I still wonder if I’m wrong. I mean, that’s what I was meant to do.”

“You’re _ human. _ You’re not  _ meant _ to do anything but live your life. And you can’t let a three hundred year old witch do it for you.”

“What would you do, then?”

“It’s not about what _ I  _ would do.” Crowley set aside his mug and raised an eyebrow Anathema’s way.

She grimaced and stared down at the dregs of coffee floating in her cup. “I don’t know.”

“Well, I can’t tell you. But it’s not the worst thing in the world, not knowing every detail of your future. You have nothing but time to figure it all out, you’re young.”

“You still didn’t give me an answer.” Though he very much did and a part of her was glad Crowley hadn’t offered another guiding path. She’d spent long enough on someone else's.

“You really want my opinion? Maybe stop moping over Newt, though. Put yourself out there.” Crowley gave her a yellow-eyed wink with a slip of his sunglasses.

She balked. “Oh. I don’t know. After Newt, I really don’t feel like I need another man in my life.” In the entirety of their partnership she’d not felt anything but obligation. And that was exhausting. If that happened again, she didn’t know if she could bear it.

Crowley looked her over. “I didn’t say anything about a man.”

The realization of what Crowley meant hit like a ton of bricks being dropped on her chest. She blinked at him, dazed. “What- you mean?” He smiled at her expense. “Oh.” She finally settled on.

“Oh.” He repeated, lips still twisted in an amused smile. “I’m not saying you have to, if you know that’s not your thing. But you don’t know yourself well enough to say that, do you?”

She nodded, brain simultaneously working overtime and going nowhere at all.

“You might as well. Maybe you’ll find it's less of… what’s your word? An obligation.”

“I’ve never… thought about that.” But that was because she hadn’t needed to. Because she’d known what she was  _ supposed _ to do. Who she was  _ supposed _ to end up with. It’d been easier to not think about defying that. Now that she was though, the thought didn’t curdle.

Instead it found soft soil within her and took root.

“Huh…” She tugged anxiously at the lace of her sleeves, suddenly consumed by this thought. Even when she dated before, and she had, thought not seriously since after all, Newt was waiting for her, it had been at her mom’s urging.  _ You should date, mi amor! Just don’t get too invested. _ And she hadn’t. Had never once felt the inclination to do more than go on a nice dinner with the few boys she’d met. 

She’d rationalized it with the knowledge of Newt. That her true love was coming. And, after all, she had a world to save. So she hadn’t paid it much mind. And neither had her mother, who was satisfied enough for her.

How long she’d been lost in her thoughts, she didn’t know. But Crowley broke her from her reverie. “Ah, Aziraphale is going to be chafed at me for doing this without him.” 

“What? Wait, you talked about this?” That thought led to her next question. “For how long?”

“We were trying to think of the best time to bring it up.” He defended himself as he slouched in his chair. “Aziraphale actually owes me a drink.”

“He.” She saw red. “Don’t tell me you had a bet over this.”

“Alright. I won’t tell you.”

“Oh!” She exclaimed, slapping her hand to her forehead. “You’re unbearable!”

Crowley waved a dismissive hand. “Thank you. But, somehow, I think you’ll manage.” Though when her scowl didn’t cool he sighed and grew more serious. “You wouldn’t have even tried to think about it. Not until you got away from Agnes and succeeded without her. Proved her wrong.”

“Have I?” She instantly questioned. “Without her, I mean.”

A flicker of a frown crossed his face. “Was it Agnes that traveled to Hell? Or cut Heaven’s bonds off me? Before that even, is wasn’t Agnes that pushed you to show up on Aziraphale’s doorstep. You’ve been living without her for months. Even if you hadn’t saved my sorry hide.” He gave her a soft look that cut through her indignant red haze. “Just living is enough. There’s no great plan for you and that’s alright, better than alright even. That’s freedom.” He smiled wearily. “Even if it takes a while to realize it.”

“I guess it does.” Settling her hackles, Anathema slumped in her seat, feeling odd. Perhaps it was due to the cocktail of caffeine and exhaustion swirling her thoughts to mush, but she buckled forward and began to cry. Deep, wracking sobs that trembled through her body, leaving her wispy and numb.

“Ah.” Crowley murmured nervously. “Okay.”

The tears didn’t flow for sorrow or for pain. But for the release of a weight that had fallen off her chest. Safe in her hands and hair, she let the hot tears pour through her fingers and into her lap. They soaked into the wool of her coat.

“Alright. Let it out.” She didn’t hear Crowley rise but his hand found its way to her back, at first with uncertainty, just the lightest flutter on her shoulder blade. But, when she didn’t pull away, he set to soothing, slow circles. “Now you’ve got to stop,  _ my _ couch is not the one for mewling vagrants. You have no idea what it cost me.”

With a warbling laugh, she took in a deep breath through her nose and slowly released it. That was enough to center her. “Your couch is terrible.” She managed, her voice was weak. “It’s not even comfortable. I feel like I’m sitting on a rock.” When she managed to stop the hot tears rolling down her face long enough to sop them up with her sleeve, she threw Crowley a shaky smile, feeling mortified at her display.

“Is it?” He very cordially failed to remark on her blotchy complexion and instead appeared genuinely surprised as he pressed a hand against the couch to test its give. Which was almost nonexistent. “Ooh, that’s criminal.”

“Have you.” Her voice wavered. Another slow breath gave her the confidence to finish her thought. “How do  _ you _ not know that.”

“I don’t use it.” He sniffed, as if it were obvious.

Anathema snorted. “Of course you don’t.”

“And what is that supposed to mean?” Crowley withdrew, but his indignant scowl held no real menace and had not yet crept up to his eyes.

Her smirking look sent red creeping across his face. Clearing his throat, he all but snatched the empty mug from her hand. “That’s enough for you.” He snapped.

The cheeky grin that encouraged only flustered him further before he shut her down with a glare and returned to the kitchen to the sound of clicking ceramic.

Left alone, Anathema contemplated this new state of existence, still uncertain. “Why would Agnes write about Newt? If she knew.”

“Maybe she didn’t know?” Came Crowley’s suggestion.

_ “She knew.” _

“Whatever,” Crowley scoffed. “She was just having a laugh?” He offered. “Or.” He barked a laugh himself. “No, it’d sound wrong if _ I _ said it.”

“What?”

“She works in mysterious ways?” He appeared from behind his cabinets, grinning with a sharp cynicism.

Anathema groaned.

“I agree.”

Rising, Anathema noted the tension Crowley still held tight in his shoulders. It was a sharp reminder of what they had yet to do. “So, I’m still open to getting ourselves kidnapped.” She begun.

Crowley crossed his arms. “I knew you’d be on that. It can’t be our best option.”

“But we could do it, right?”

“What? Cause enough trouble to get their attention?” Crowley’s glasses glittered dangerously in the overhead lights. “Is that even a question? But they’d just as likely vaporize us.” 

The image was vivid and unpleasant. “We have any other ideas?”

“It’s not like they’re going to show up on my front doorstep.”

Maybe God  _ was _ playing a cruel joke on them. Because, at that moment the doorbell rang.

Crowley sprung to life, swiftly putting himself between her and the door and coiling there. He said nothing but by the way he prickled Anathema could tell he had a sense of what lay beyond it.

“What is it?” Without Crowley’s supernatural instinct, Anathema felt blind to whatever new threat lay behind that door.

Without waiting for so much as a “come in” there came the sound of the door unlocking. A pair of footsteps entered, shuttling the door firmly behind them.

“Hello? Manners?” Crowley called out cautiously. One hand hovered over Anathema while his other was balled at his side. It trembled slightly.

“I don’t believe we need a lesson in manners from a  _ demon.” _ Came a woman’s dismissive reply. Or what looked like a woman as she and her companion, a squat balding man, rounded the corner. Everything about her screamed orderly, from her slate suit to her efficient, business-like updo of brown and grey locks, to her cold eyes, edged in gold leaf, and the odd way she carried her hands in front of her, clasp together at the waist like they were sending half a prayer.

A glimpse at her aura left Anathema briefly stunned and with a great spot on her vision like she’d stared into a cold sun. These angels, the woman shaped one in particular, shone bright as a cluster of stars. Far brighter than Aziraphale. But the light was cold and impersonal and lacked the love that left Aziraphale glowing like a hearth fire. 

“Micheal. Sandolphan.” Crowley greeted stiffly, swinging his head between the two. “Lovely to see you again.” The icy coolness of his voice belied a cold rage that made Anathema reassess the nature of the shake Crowley had to him. 

“Demon Crawley.” The one identified as Sandolphan said, baring his teeth. Anathema frowned at the grill-like piece of gold inlaid between them. “You’re needed.”

“Awh, you two really know how to make a demon feel welcome.” Crowley had planted himself between Anathema and the angels. At his full height he stood above the two of them. “This is about me slipping away, isn’t it? You know me.  _ Slippery.” _

Still, Anathema could taste the imbalance of power in the air, like ozone that clung to the two angels.

Micheal paid no mind to Crowley’s low hiss as she stepped towards them. “There’s no need to make things more difficult than you’ve already made them. Stand down.”

“But I  _ am _ difficult, Micheal.”

Her smile was a professional response and possibly colder than any scowl. “We’re well aware. But there’s no escaping this, demon. There’s nowhere to run we won’t find you.”

“I’m actually done running.”

Micheal blinked. “Good,” she nodded, her cool never broken. “It’d simply be a waste of time and you’ve squandered quite enough of that.”

Crowley glanced back at Anathema. At this distance his glasses were translucent and his eyes shone with grim determination.

She knew the look. What a man, demon, whatever, bent on a suicide mission looked like. “Excuse me,” she interjected, stepping from behind Crowley. “This is about getting Aziraphale banished from Heaven, isn’t it?”

Both angels fixed her with a look. Sandolphan smile was slimy. “Girl, this is not your place to interfere.”

“People keep telling me that.” She glanced to Crowley, who watched her, unsure, as she took another step towards the angels. “But Aziraphale, and Crowley too, they live on Earth, right? They’ve denounced their, uh. Their offices. You guys. If anything, I, you know, someone who lives on Earth, should have more of a say over them than you do.”

“You don’t own the Earth.” Sandolphan pointed out. “God does. Her word is final and that’s what we’re going to get.”

From behind Anathema, Crowley let out a low hiss, his theory confirmed. Even Anathema’s stomach turned. “Weird that She hasn’t done anything about them already, isn’t it?”

Sandolphan’s jaw worked. “God works in mysterious ways.” He snapped unironically. “Besides, that ends now.” 

“Really? Has She told you that?” By the vein bulging in Sandolphan’s forehead, Anathema knew the answer.

The shorter angel turned to his superior, who had remained silent, her eyes fixed unnervingly on Anathema. “This insolence is ridiculous. It’s just one human, could I turn her salt, you could write it off of my wages.”

Crowley’s hand found Anathema’s sleeve and tugged her back. “I’d like to see you try.” He snarled.

But Micheal shook her head at her companion. “No, no. Don’t you see? This is perfect.” Her gaze was cold and calculated as it raked over Anathema. “We will extend our summons to you as well, human.” She closed the distance between them, ignoring a hissing Crowley, and held out a well manicured hand.

Anathema stared at it like it was poisonous.

“Ah. Of course.” Micheal shook her head as if she’d forgotten herself. “Do not be afraid.”

After a second of shared confusion with Crowley, she took Micheal’s hand.

The angel smiled cooly at her, closing her other hand over the top of Anathema’s, trapping her in the awkward handshake. “Wonderful, Anathema Device. Your cooperation will be noted.”

Before Anathema had time to contemplate that she was following Crowley into Heaven without even the ghost of a flash of bright white light drowned out Crowley’s flat.

**Author's Note:**

> This fic will update weekly! Check in next Thursday for Hell!


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